


The Mating Call Of The Northeastern Screech Owl

by cuddyclothes



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bird Calls, Comedy, Eventual Jooster, Fake Identities, First Kiss, M/M, UST, Unintentional frottage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddyclothes/pseuds/cuddyclothes
Summary: Written for the Jeeves & Wooster Gift Exchange 2018.Bertie didn't mean to drag Jeeves to a bachelor party to perform bird calls. But these things happen.I don't base my characters on the TV show, but Mr. Coneybear is too awesome not to include, and definitely under-served in fic.Please comment, I promise to respond (also, I'm insecure).ETA: This will be slower in coming than my other stories due to an ongoing family problem.





	1. Listen To The Mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ricketybridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricketybridge/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we first learn of the ranygazoo.

“ _Chik-chik-chik-chik-chik_!”

“Do another! Do another!” Lance Watson yelled over the applause and a thrown spoon. The man in the center of the enthusiastic circle smiled and obliged.

“This is the call of the Eastern screech owl _. Purrrerrrrr_ — _prrrrrrrrrrr prrrrrrrer prrrrrrrrrrr_ ”

“That’s the berries, Wissy! Do another!”

The object of everyone’s attention glanced past Lance Watson and caught my eye. Despite the smile on his face, Jeeves’s eyebrows let me know that there would be hell to pay for getting him into this.

 

 

Before I go any further, let me set the scene for you: a balmy spring night at a huge, gaudy ballroom in an equally huge, gaudy mansion in Great Neck, Long Island. Waiters and waitresses and things carrying trays, pouring champagne. Gold streamers hung on everything they can be hung, including any waiter that stands still long enough. The dramatis personae: a sizeable contingent of birds in black tie, including self, here to celebrate Lance Watson’s bachelor party. And at the center of said sizeable contingent, impeccably dressed in evening raiment, is Jeeves. Performing bird calls.

And it is all my fault.

 

 

The whole ranygazoo came about while I was residing in New York, on temporary leave from London and from not one but _two_ aunts determined to get the last of the Woosters to the altar, even if they had to use chloroform. And they would have had to, indeed. Aunt Dahlia’s pick was a “an excellent hunt horse,” a phrase from her Quorn  &Pytchley hunting days. By which she meant quiet, yielding and patient. I found the horse, er, girl to be silent, obdurate and unfortunately, extremely passionate. Sybill mistook my gentlemanly reserve for naïveté and decided there was no time like the present to educate me. I fled with my dignity intact but my shirt less so.

Aunt Agatha had located an aunt-in-training if there ever was one. Daphne corrected my table manners, told me to stand up straight, and thrust into my hands a copy of “The Scientific Outlook” by some fellow named Bertrand Russell. A quick skim of this tome and I was on the milk train back to London at dawn. That same day Jeeves and self were aboard a ship bound for New York.

In search of congenial company, I was a _habitué_ of the Pumpkin Club, a private gentlemen’s club affiliated with London’s Drones Club, my home away from home. Being American, members of the Pumpkin Club were much louder and were prone to wearing the sort of clothes than I longed to wear. Checks, stripes, paisleys in shades of yellow, purple and orange. However my valet Jeeves is a staunch traditionalist when it comes to menswear, so none of these delightful items had made it into my wardrobe.

Mr. Coneybear, our affable if somewhat judgmental elevator operator, remarked to me one evening in the elevator, “that Mr. Jeeves is a talented guy, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Quite agree, quite agree,” I said proudly. “No one can touch him at ironing razor-sharp creases in my trousers! Or making _creme brulee_! Have you ever tried to make _creme brulee_ , Mr. Coneybear? I have, and it was an experience that has scarred me for life.”

He smiled. “I didn’t mean that, Mr. Wooster. His bird calls! I haven’t heard a mockingbird since I left Georgia! Mr. Jeeves imitated it so good I could have sworn there was one right there on the fire escape!”

“What did you say?”

Mr. Coneybear gave me a surprised look. “Mr. Wooster, you didn’t know Mr. Jeeves does bird calls?”

“Did I hear you correctly, Mr. Coneybear? Did you say Jeeves does bird calls?”

“Huh.” The man obviously did not approve. “All that time with him and you didn’t know he does bird calls. He’s a dab hand, believe you me. Mr. Jeeves likes to sit out on the fire escape and practice bird calls. If he’s there when I’m on my lunch break, I go sit and listen. Sometimes he does Southern birds just for me.” Mr. Coneybear smiled. “I want him to come home and do it for the wife and kids.”

“My word.” I was utterly astounded. It would be of course understandable if Jeeves was an expert on birds, because I have yet to find a subject he is not an expert on. Believe me, I’ve tried. But bird calls? I mean to say, _bird calls?_

“Good evening, sir,” Jeeves said as I swept in. I goggled at him. This tall reserved chap practiced bird calls? The most animated I had seen the cove was when I had grown a mustache. This gave a entirely new complexion to the man. Secretly imitating southern songbirds bespoke a certain thingummy that I’d never suspected.

“Jeeves, a word.”

“Yes, sir?” He stood, feudal spirit simply radiating off of him.

“Is what Mr. Coneybear told me true? Are you in the habit of practicing bird calls?”

For an instant his eyebrows flew up, his eyes widened, and he would have staggered, if he was the staggering type. Since Jeeves is decidedly a non-staggerer, his eyebrows and eyes snapped to their usual positions, this time _sans_ feudal spirit. He was as opaque as an oyster, if oysters are opaque. I mean, they aren’t transparent, at least not the ones I’ve eaten.

“A cocktail, sir?” he said, starting for the bar.

“Yes, but don’t try to change the subject, my good man! Mr. Coneybear informed me that you can mimic a mockingbird with remarkable precision! Why on earth have you kept this talent hidden from me, Jeeves? Imagine the hit it would make with at the Drones! We’d have an unending stream of guests waiting for you to bust out the grackle.”

Jeeves glanced over his shoulder at me, then returned to his bottles and shakers. “Forgive me, sir, but that is the reason I did not tell you. I do not wish to become a...curiosity for you to display to your friends. A friend of mine, Lord May Whitty’s first footman, can do cartwheels and back flips. Unfortunately, his lordship saw my friend doing so while he was attempting to impress a parlor maid. The acrobatics have become a standard _après manger_ performance for his lordship’s dinner guests.”

“Good lord, Jeeves!” I exclaimed. “You wound me. Do you for one second believe I would demand you unwillingly perform for an audience? Perish the thought! You have this Wooster’s word, I will never put you in that position. However, I should like to hear it for myself. You know, between you, me and Mr. Coneybear.”

Jeeves handed me the cocktail. It was with a visible effort that he said, “what bird would you like to hear, sir?”

“My choice, eh! Well, Jeeves, I should like to hear the call old Coneybear spoke so highly of, the mockingbird.”

He inclined the head. “If I might make a request, sir?”

“Yes, what is it, Jeeves?”

“That I might only do the one, sir.”

I did not show my disappointment. After the mockingbird, I had intended to ask him to imitate a chicken, a bluebird and a flamingo. This last because I’ve always wondered what sort of sounds flamingos make. “Very good, Jeeves. Now, mock away!”

Jeeves drew himself up and looked pointedly past me. “This, sir, is the Northern mockingbird—“

“Hang on, Mr. Coneybear said he heard them in Georgia.”

“Sir, mockingbirds, _mimus polyglottos_ , live throughout North America, Canada and Mexico. But they are found most often in the southern states.”

“Oh. Carry on.”

Looking resolutely at the opposite wall, Jeeves put his hands to his mouth and proceeded to make remarkably birdlike sounds. Chirps and whistles and things.

“Hang on!” I stopped him. “How do I know that’s a mockingbird? It could be anything.”

“You have to trust me on this, sir,” Jeeves said, a hint of exasperation in his tone. He began again. “ _Ee-eree, er-eeree, check, check, check, eer-eree, er-eeree_.”

Damned if I didn’t think there was a feathered friend right there in the room with us! In fact I looked around for one, but no, the sound was indeed coming from my valet. It was too bad I had promised him not to make him do bird calls for anyone else, but a Wooster is a man who keeps his word.

I _meant_ to be, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening to bird call videos on YouTube is making my cat insane.


	2. Bobby And The Terrible Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie plunges himself into the soup.
> 
> Do comment, won't you?

It was but a scant two weeks later that I made the fatal mistake of letting Bobby Lilley give me a lift home. He had something to do with hats, making, selling or something. Of course old Jeeves thought Lilley hats “vulgar” because they were always at the forefront of fashion. Bobby had previously presented me with a beautiful hat, made of pale straw, with a wide brim that kept the sun out of the baby blues.

When first I donned the headgear, to go with my natty linen suit and blue tie, Jeeves’s eyes widened and his mouth turned down at the corners. As I said above, Jeeves does not stagger. But he took a step backward, which for Jeeves was as close to a stagger as was possible.

“How do you like the new _chapeau_ , Jeeves? A Lilley Exclusive, as worn by the bon ton about town.” I admired myself in the mirror. “I cut quite a dash, if I do say so, and I do say so. It’s called a Panama.”

“Is it used for dredging the canal, sir?” he asked in a tone that can only be called sour.

“Jeeves, I will not listen to any cheap jibes regarding this hat. You took away my boater, dooming me to sweat in soft hats no matter how high the temp. This Wooster shall have his scalp cooled by the city breeze. I am putting my foot down.”

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves replied, and went sullenly to the kitchen, presumably to take out his dudgeon on the pots and pans.

Bobby’s gift was soon to be the least of my problems. On the night in question, I lounged with a batch of other fellows, including Bobby, at the Pumpkin Club, slaking my thirst with a dry martini. Why they are called dry when the glass is full of liquid beats me. We had returned from “The Ziegfeld Follies of 1934” and were decrying the venerable showman’s fall from his halcyon days. Maxwell Dallion claimed that Ziegfeld was dead, that Shubert was now producing the “Follies”. He was shouted down.

“I still say Fanny Brice can’t hold a candle to the Brox Sisters,” old Honeycutt Burroughs remarked. “There were two of _them_.”

Evanson James leaned back in his armchair, idly rolling a glass of whiskey in his hand. “So, anyone else going to Lance Watson’s bachelor party?”

There was a chorus of groans. “Stop bragging, Evvy,” said Honeycutt. “You know none of us are invited.”

“Who is this Lance Watson bird?” I asked, baffled by why all of the coves were suddenly brought down.

“Who is Lance Watson,” said Maxwell. “ _Who_ is Lance Watson, the limey asks.”

“I say!”

Bobby, who had been sitting at the bar, turned around. “Don’t mind them, Bertie. Lance Watson is Louis Watson’s son. You know, the studio head.”

“Louis Watson? Golly!” Louis Watson was the head of Magnificent Studios. “If A Picture Is Great It's Magnificent!” went the slogan. Elder Watson’s picture was frequently in the papers, often standing next to a beautiful actress, which only served to accentuate the elder Watson’s resemblance to one of those gargoyles hanging off Notre Dame.

“Some of the most beautiful women in pictures are under contract to Magnificent,” Honeycutt moaned. “Dorothy Dillinger makes Claudette Colbert look like Joe E. Brown.”

“An invite to Lance Watson’s bachelor party means you’re a shoo-in to be invited to the wedding reception. And oh, boy, are there going to be some hotsy-totsies there?” said Evvy. He rubbed his hands together.

“You’re telling me?” said a red-headed fellow unhappily, knowing that meeting Dorothy Dillinger was a wish that would never come true.

“Too bad none of you fellows have an unusual talent,” Evvy added. “Lance has a taste for novelty, and any of you drips would bore him silly. And I hear tell that some of Magnificent’s biggest male stars are going to be there!”

“I can play the piano,” I said, a vision of self entertaining the multitudes rising before me.

“ _Anybody_ can play the piano, Bertie. Something, you know, like magic tricks.”

There was silence as the fellows mourned the lost opportunity to meet Dorothy Dillinger.

Feeling the evening had gone on long enough, I accepted the fateful ride. When we arrived at my abode, Bobby pulled up the car. Abruptly he sat up very straight.

“Bertie! Listen!”

“ _Chik-a-dee-dee-dee! Chik-a-dee-dee-dee!_ ”

“Good goddamn! That’s a Carolina chickadee! I haven’t heard one of those since I was in Tennessee!”

“ _Chik-a-dee-dee_!”

Before I could stop him, Bobby was rounding the side of the building. I followed after.

Jeeves was doing a bird call for Mr. Coneybear and somebody’s maid. “I do declare that was a perfect imitation!” she cried.

“Thank you, Jenny,” Jeeves said graciously. He saw us, and bowed. He was also in black tie, presumably having visited whatever the New York equivalent of the Junior Ganymede was.

“This is my—“ I started to say.

“Say!” Bobby said, grabbing Jeeves’s hand and shaking it with vigor. Jeeves accepted the handshake dubiously. “That was some pumpkins, fella!” He turned to me. “You know this guy, Bertie?”

“This is my—“

“Another limey! How about that? This friend of yours will make sure we can get into Lance Watson’s party! You’re the answer to my dreams, fella!”

A fork in the road stretched out before me. The left road led to saying goodnight, tipping the hat, and missing Lance Watson’s bachelor party. The right road led to Lance Watson’s bachelor party, raucous merriment, and the chance to meet stars of the screen.

It was at that moment I made the aforementioned fatal mistake.

“Why, yes, this is my friend—um— Wisterly Blankenship,” I said, seizing Jeeves’s newly freed hand and winking at him.

“Sir?”

“What’s with the formality?” Bobby said. “I’m Bobby Lilley! My family owns Lilley Hats! Every gent in New York owns a Lilley hat!”

Jeeves regarded him frostily. “I am sorry to say that I do not own a Lilley hat, sir. They are too showy for a gentleman.”

“Aw, come on, Wissy!” Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. Jeeves gave him a look that should have set his hair on fire, but Bobby was immune. “You know, Bertie, this friend of yours is just the ticket to get us into Lance’s bachelor party! I'm telephoning Evvy as soon as I get home! Wissy, you're a lifesaver!"

I ask you, what was a chum to do? Bobby was counting on Jeeves, and I couldn’t let a chum down.

“I thought as much, old chap. Wissy, you shall perform bird calls at Lance Watson’s bachelor party, and I won’t take _no_ for an answer.”

Before Jeeves could respond, behind us, Mr. Coneybear snickered. Bobby turned to him.

“You must be Jeeves!” he cried. “Everybody’s heard of Jeeves, on both sides of the Atlantic! Gee, I didn’t know you were a colored fellow!”

I was surprised that Bobby didn’t know the difference between an elevator operator’s uniform and a valet’s uniform, but that’s Americans for you. No knowledge of tradition. If they had, they wouldn’t have thrown all of that tea overboard.

Mr. Coneybear, damn the man, evidently thought this was a lark. “Indeed, sir?” he drawled. “I endeavor to give satisfaction.”

“And American, too! Bertie, you never said he was American!”

Sweat broke out on the brow. “Oh, ah. It—it—um—rather, what?”

“Mr. Wooster,” Jeeves said frostily, “it is well past midnight.”

“Time to go beddy-bye, sir!” Mr. Coneybear was enjoying this far too much.

“Okay, Bertie, I’m calling Evvy! He’ll get us an invite, just see if he doesn’t! Good night, Wissy, it was great to meet you! Practice up on those bird calls!”

We watched him go. What in blazes had I let myself in for?


	3. The Machinations Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie doesn't play fair.
> 
> Sorry this is a short one! More to come!
> 
> Please comment, okay?

Mr. Coneybear said nothing until Jeeves and self were exiting the lift.

“Good night, _sir_ ,” the fiend snickered. Before I could get off a witty retort, the lift door shut with an insolent bang.

Jeeves opened the front door of the flat in silence. I decided a firm stand must be taken. After all, who was the master and who was the servant?

Have you ever decided to act on a bad idea, even though you knew it was a bad idea and that it would end in tears? But became even more determined to act on it?

When I was a mere stripling, my cousins Claude and Eustace convinced me to sneak into Aunt Agatha’s room and steal her hairbrush while the evil beast was taking a bath. And drowning kittens, I have no doubt. Despite knowing it was a bad idea indeed, I remembered the Woosters who had fought in the Crusades. It even gave me a furtive thrill to be throwing myself into the dragon’s lair and possibly getting merry hell for it. Girding myself, I stole into the bedroom. However, I hadn’t counted on the lady’s maid, who screamed, nor had I counted on the hair-raising sight of Aunt Agatha dressed in naught but a small towel. The next morning I was summoned to the study and given six of the best by my Uncle Percy, using the aforementioned hairbrush.

Again I girded myself, knuckles on hips and shoulders thrown back.

“Jeeves, this Wooster is well aware he has tossed us into the cock-a-leekie, but I know your feudal spirit won’t let me down!” I proclaimed. “All good aides should come to the men from the party!”

“The correct quotation is ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party’, sir. It was originally created by Charles Weller, an instructor, as a typing drill, as claimed in the 1918 book ‘The Early History of The Typewriter’.”

“Typewriters or fountain pens, Jeeves, it matters not. We shall hie ourselves on Saturday eve to Long Island. There Lance Watson, scion of the motion picture tycoon Louis Watson, is throwing the shindig of the year, I’m told. Movie stars shall be strewn about the place like so many throw cushions. It was fate that Bobby heard you!”

“Really, sir?” His tone suggested that throwing me out of the window would be by far the most satisfying act of the day.

“I mean to say, there you were, doing the feathered friend imitation! Pure seraphim—Saratoga—serendipity! Bobby’s desperate to get an invite to Lance Watson’s bachelor party and we needed something—someone—unusual to get the invite and as I said, _voila_! Flawless timing, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir,” he said flatly. I detected a noticeable lack of feudal spirit.

“I detect a noticeable lack of feudal spirit, Jeeves. Here’s the sitch. I have to produce a friend who can do bird calls! Bobby is relying on me, and you know this Wooster never lets a chum down. My good fellow, there is a cause greater than we two!”

“Indeed, sir,” he said in that same tone.

“Bobby Lilley must meet Dorothy Dillinger!”

“At a bachelor party, sir?”

“No, afterwards. Not that night, no, not at the wedding, but at the reception! Would you pass up a chance to meet a pipterino like that, Jeeves?”

“I could not say, sir.” He had shimmered over to the bar to mix me a whiskey and soda. As he handed me the needful, he gave me a reproachful look.

“You’re giving me a reproachful look,” I observed. “Why?”

“Sir, if you will recall, when you first discovered my hobby, you agreed that I should not be made to perform for your friends.”

“I don’t know any of them well, except Bobby. I can’t go back on my word. I’m sorry, Jeeves, but that’s how it is. You’ll simply have to stiffen the upper lip.”

I confessed, I wavered. My manservant's eyebrow bespoke resistance.  But then out of the blue! Inspiration! Or blackmail, take your pick, but I prefer inspiration. So much tidier.

I twirled a nonchalant cocktail. "We’ll be going back to London next month. One might speak of your astounding facility.  If, say, one of the Drones happened to hear that you do bird calls, accidentally, well, one thinks soon they'd all be coming round.”

“Sir—“ His expression did not change, but a muscle spasmed in his jaw.

“Why, Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps might well move into the flat.”

Jeeves regarded me for a long moment, torn between agreeing with me or biffing me avast the noggin with the telephone table.

“Very good, sir,” he said, in a tone that made me resolve to sleep with one eye open.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at cuddyclothes.tumblr.com if you want to chat!


	4. The Soup Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bobby makes an awkward request.

The next days were a strain on the legendary Wooster goodwill. While Jeeves performed his duties with his customary efficiency, our cheery _bonhomie_ was but a memory.

With the tact for which Wooster is widely admired, I airily mentioned the Watson binge once in a great while. “Is my dinner jacket cleaned and pressed, Jeeves?” I asked while pretending to read a magazine.

“Yes, sir.”

I glanced up. Did I see a nostril flair, or was it my imagination? No, both nostrils were firmly at their usual stands.

“Very good, Jeeves.”

Or: “Jeeves, I do hope you know we’re not to wear white tie. It’s informal wear.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You know, in case you laid out the wrong garb for the big bash. Not that you would, Jeeves, but one cannot be too careful, eh?”

“Indeed, sir.”

One should have been satisfied with the man’s responses, but one was not. Indeed, one suspected sabotage.

My good and devoted Aunt Dahlia had given me a pair of gold cufflinks for my birthday, with my initials tastefully engraved. Jeeves did not dare turn up his nose at the gift. The aged r. had me promise that I would wear them whenever I visited her in town. There came the morning of the day I was to meet Aunt Dahlia for luncheon at Quag’s.

“Where are those cufflinks, Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“The engraved ones. You know, gold colored, the initials B.W. in spiffy scrolled script. Ha! Trying saying that five times fast, Jeeves!”

“I think not, sir.”

“Be that as it may, Jeeves, the cufflinks must be located instanter.”

After some rummaging about in places where one would assumedly keep baubles of the men’s better jewelry, Jeeves turned to me. “Sir, I regret to say that I cannot locate them.”

“Well, then, find another pair. Aunt Dahlia’s getting on, her eyesight won’t be able to tell one set of gold colored cuff-links from another, eh? I’ll keep my hands under the table as much as possible.”

He rummaged again, turning back to me with a sorrowful look about the dial. “Sir, I regret to say that I cannot locate any other gold colored cuff-links either.”

“Indeed? That’s rummy. All lost?”

“I shall endeavor to search for them, sir. They have undoubtedly been misplaced.” He opened his hand. “These will go well with your attire, sir.”

I let the blighter fasten the cuff-links to the shirt. It was only when I picked up my napkin in front of Aunt Dahlia that I saw that they were blue mother of pearl. Now, at any other time they would have been quite attractive, with the way they caught the light and all. At this time, however, the blue mother of pearl cuff-links were not the object of appreciation but rather disapprobation.  Their owner was also the subject of such loud and lengthy disapprobation from an angered a. that the retreat was sounded and I ended up back at the flat without having eaten. Jeeves, the fiend, seemed to know what had happened and had a plate of sandwiches and a half bot waiting! He professed innocence. But I suspected otherwise.

Friday night I returned home from a delightful musical show, to find Jeeves awaiting me. The telephone tootled as he took my coat and hat. He floated to the device and picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Wooster’s residence.” There was a pause. Then, in a completely different voice, he said, “Good evening, Mr. Lilley! And how are you doing on this fine night?”

I stared at Jeeves and raised the eyebrows. Then it hit me—Jeeves was imitating Mr. Coneybear! Despite his antagonism, Jeeves had enough feudal spirit to keep the young master from humiliation.

“You’re in luck, Mr. Lilley. Mr. Wooster’s right here. You want to talk to him?”

It wasn’t just birds that Jeeves could imitate, by Jove. He handed me the receiver.

“Bobby, old chum!” I greeted him.

“Bertie! Say, listen, I had a great idea! You get a limo, Jeeves drives it and we get to the party in high style! What d’ya say?”

“Eh?”

“We’ve got to make an impression, pal! Instead of my old tin can or a taxi, we drive up in a fancy limo. Wissy’s got enough presence that he’ll make us look great!”

“But—Bobby, old prune—“

“Say, you wouldn’t hold out on a friend, would you? Don't tell me you're that type of guy, Bertie!”

“But I say—“

“Not a friend who’s given you the swankiest hat in New York City!”

“Oh, all right, dash it!”

“You’d better get on it quick, Wooster, the party’s tomorrow night! I’m counting on you!”

I hung up the receiver. “There has been a spanner tossed into the workings, Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“Bobby has demanded we arrive in a limousine. Driven by you—or rather, you, as played by Mr. Coneybear.” I bowed the head. “We’re in the clam chowder, Jeeves.”

“Not yet, sir,” he responded. “I shall hire a limousine and speak to Mr. Coneybear. Doubtless he will appreciate the addition to his pay packet.”

“You’re a wonder, Jeeves. Thank you for putting your personal feelings aside. I’m proud of you!”

“Very good, sir.” The look he favored me with had nothing to do with gratitude.


	5. Childe Roland To The Huge Pile Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which false identities are not so easy to keep straight.

Those who knew Bertram Wooster know that when it comes to facing an affair that threatens to be as soupy as they come, he is as chilled steel. His noble brow does not furrow, his shoulders do not slump. Nay, he faces it head on with a cry of “Excelsior!”

When Bobby Lilley presented himself at my front door, did I quail? I did not. I summoned the spirits of ancestors past and ushered him in with a hearty “What ho!” Bertram was sanguine that the evening would go swimmingly.

“Where’s Jeeves?” Bobby glanced around. “Isn’t he supposed to answer the door?” Bobby was wearing a snappy mile-wide black fedora with a pink band. The chilled steel melted down my spine as I realized Jeeves would see that hat when he emerged. It would not be pretty.

“Oh, ah,” I answered.

My premonition was on the money. Jeeves floated out from the general direction of his quarters, dressed in black tie.  Upon spying Bobby’s topper, his eyes widened. Without a word, he turned and floated back the way he came.

“Jee—Wissy!” I cried. I goggled at Bobby. “He wanted to make a telephone call. Help yourself to a drink.”

“Don’t mind if I do, Bertie, thanks!”

My fist rapped on the door of Jeeves’s bedroom. “Jeeves,” I whispered. “Open this door!”

The door opened. Jeeves appeared, his skin the color of fine linen paper. “I apologize, sir. That hat—”

“I’m sorry, but you must pull yourself together, man!”

“I shall be better directly, sir.”

“How am I supposed to get through this without you there to imitate the sweet song of the cormorant?”

He winced. “Cormorants are not songbirds, sir. They grunt. Much too vulgar.”

Having helped himself to a large glass of the needful, Bobby had sprawled out on the sofa, feet on the occasional table thing. Jeeves coughed, but I shook my head.

“Wissy! There you are!” Bobby exclaimed, tilting his hat slightly back on his head. Jeeves looked at Bobby’s feet. Whether it was telepathy or force of personality, Bobby got the hint and leapt to his feet.

“Good evening, sir.”

“You England boys sure are fussy! Call me Bobby!” He thrust out a hand for a shake. Jeeves took it gingerly.

“Very good, Bobby.”

Jeeves fetched a Homburg hat out of the closet. I had seen the man in black tie, of course, and  he looked good. Better than good. Now, I don’t wish to mislead you into thinking this was the first time I’d noticed that Jeeves was quite the handsome devil. I’d noticed plenty. Tall, dark-haired, broad shouldered, Jeeves caused feelings I’d had toward Bobbie Wickham before she revealed herself to be a capricious filly. Or the feelings I had when beholding Esmond Haddock, that man of Byronic mug and Greek God figure, at Deverill Hall. Esmond occasionally drifted into my thoughts just before closing the eyes at night, causing sleep to be somewhat delayed..

 “It’s going to be swell tonight! You got the car ready to go, Bertie?”

“Yes, si—Bobby. Jeeves is waiting downstairs with the limousine.”

 

Mr. Coneybear, dressed in a gray chauffeur’s uniform, leaned against a black Packard limousine. The smile on his face was positively insolent.

“Good evening, Mr. Wooster, Mr.—“

Damn, he’d forgotten Jeeves’s assumed moniker! And so had I!

“Mr. Blankenship, Jeeves,” Jeeves said stonily. Mr. Coneybear’s smile only grew wider.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Blankenship! Hop in!”

Bertram was no longer sanguine.

 

 

The limousine chugged along dark roads to Long Island. I had seated Jeeves next to Bobby, so that Jeeves did not have to stare at Bobby’s hat all the way out to the boondocks. I sat opposite, wishing I had a snort to calm the trembles in my midsection. Jeeves stared fixedly out of the window.

“How do you like the topper, Bertie?” Bobby asked, running a finger around the brim. He turned to Jeeves. “That Homburg has got to go, Wissy! It’s stuffy! Out of date!” He snapped two fingers on his hat brim. “Now this is a darb! You can wear it out on the tiles instead of a top hat, or once Autumn’s here, during the day! We call it Broadway Blackie! And will you look swell? Will you?”

“If you are asking me, the answer is no,” said Jeeves, not turning from the window.

“Say, Bertie, this guy’s not a wet blanket, is he?”

“Oh, no! Perish the thought! Old Wissy’s just having you on. He may seem hidebound, but don’t tell anyone, he wears green sock garters!”

Jeeves looked at me in a way that could set my top hat on fire. “I assure you, my sock garters are black,” he sniffed.

“Don’t get your garters in a twist, Wissy.” Bobby laughed at his own witticism. “I’m just funning. Change places with me, Bertie, I want to speak to your man.”

“Oh? Oh! I’m not sure that’s a good idea, young Bobby. You don’t want to distract Jeeves when he’s driving. He has a concentration problem, you know, forgets how to—to—iron and things.”

“You’re kidding me. Shove over!”

Reluctantly, I changed places with him. “I’m sorry, Jeeves,” I whispered. “Try not to look at the hat.”

Bobby leaned over the back of the front seat.

“Say, Jeeves?”

“Yes, Mr. Lilley?”

“How did a colored American fellow get to be an Englishman’s valet?”

Mr. Coneybear looked at the rear-view mirror, and winked.

“I was an elevator operator, sir. I got a promotion.”

“Oh.” Bobby looked puzzled. “And how did you find England?”

“The way anybody does, sir. With a boat and a map.”

Bobby looked at me. “Does he talk to you like that, Bertie?”

“That’s just his way, old prune. These Americans, never shake off the habit of informality, eh, Jeeves?”

“No, sir.”

 “How is it being back in America?” Bobby asked.

“They don’t know how to make tea, sir, but they’ve got better liquor.”

 

 

Lance Watson’s domain was a massive pile which seemed to be three French chateaus piled atop each other and then pulled apart by a giant who lost interest half-way through.

“So this is Watson Gardens,” Bobby said, awed.

“ _Damn,_ ” said Mr. Coneybear.

“Did you _say_ something, Jeeves?” asked Jeeves.

“No, no, my apologies, Mr.—“

“Blankenship!” I exclaimed.

“Blankenship,” Mr. Coneybear repeated. “Blankenship. I won’t forget.” He pulled the car to a halt in front of the mansion. Colored lights were all over the place, turning different windows in different areas different colors.

Two servants in dark blue uniforms opened the limousine doors.

“Take the car around the back,” one of them instructed Mr. Coneybear.

“Will do,” he answered. Then he drove off, leaving us gaping at Watson Mansion. Bobby and I were gaping, Jeeves was as impassive as ever.  “I’m Coming Home, Virginia” could be heard over the laughter and screams. It wasn’t any 5-piece dance orchestra, it was a full orchestra, with piccolos and flutes and banjos and things.

“Into the Alcázar, chaps!” I exclaimed.

“Huh?” said Bobby.

 


	6. Diamonds On The Candlesticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie and Jeeves get a taste of the high-life, Hollywood style.

On our way through the enormous tiled doorway,  we passed two armed guards. Bobby and Jeeves were unaffected, but given my extensive experience with the law, a _soupcon_ of sweat bedewed the brow. “Why are there guards, Bobby?” I whispered, lest one of them grab me and bung me into a coat closet.

“Are you kidding? This dump is worth 20 million smackers! Old Man Watson likes to show off. He’s got diamonds on his candlesticks! Diamonds! A month ago a guest was caught trying to steal one. It might have worked if he hadn’t been wearing a bathing suit.”

Jeeves gazed about us in unrestrained horror.

“Howdya like it, Wissy?” Bobby slapped Jeeves on the back.

Jeeves stood impossibly straighter. “It is—it is unique, Mr. Lilley.”

“None of that Mr. Lilley stuff, Wissy! _Bobby!_ ”

“Bobby.” One of Jeeves’s eyelids twitched.

The entry hall was vast and teeming with un-English people, mostly of the male variety. The room had orangey-brown tiled walls that reminded one of one of the better class men’s lounges in a New York railway station. Two marble staircases curved up and met at the top, wherein an archway presumably led to the raucous festivities within.

“Jeeves,” I muttered, “what is this style of decoration?”

“Poor taste,” he muttered back.

“I know that, but the style.”

“It is attempting to be Spanish, sir. Note the wrought iron banisters on the staircases. And the cactuses in the arched alcoves.”

“Do cactuses grow in Long Island?”

“No, sir,” he replied in a tone that reeked with disdain.

A beautiful young girl with a black marcel wave so tight you could have cut paper on it approached us.

“Your hats, gentlemen?”

“Gosh, yes!” Bobby gawked at her. He handed his Broadway Blackie over with a flourish. Jeeves took our hats and did same, minus the flourish. She gave Bobby a broad wink. She wiggled over to an area where a large group of stands had been set up at one side of the left hand staircase.

We ascended the marble staircase, through a marble hallway with halberds and things in it, and stepped into the largest ballroom this Wooster has ever seen in his life save for one visit to Kensington Palace as a wee’un in short velvet trousers and ringlets. Speaking of short velvet trousers and ringlets, there were quite a few cuties in the smallest pink uniforms possible carrying trays of cigarettes and sundry other smokables. Add to that an overabundance of waiters in crisp white mess jackets, a dance orchestra, and a number of fellows drinking and smoking. One recognized quite a few of them, stars of Magnificent Pictures, mostly throwing their heads back and laughing too loud. Probably believed that if they looked insufficiently merry their contracts would be terminated. Nervously I glanced about to see if any of the Drones brethren were milling about. They would know Jeeves wasn’t my bosom buddy. Our cover would be blown and yet another amusing anecdote would have my fellow club members wetting themselves with laughter.

Ah, but the ballroom. The _ballroom._ It was so large one could have fit an entire English country cottage into it with room left over for the odd sheep or two.

Bobby hadn’t been joking when he said old man Watson had diamonds on the candlesticks! The candlesticks were at least four feet high and solid gold. Even Cecil B. deMille’s set designer would say, “hey, buddy, tone it down a little, willya?” The vaulted ceiling looked to be trimmed in gold, as did the French doors running alongside the opposite wall. Through them one could see a vast lawn and an equally vast swimming pool. Japanese lanterns were strewn about the edge of the pool. Electric lights emerged from the walls, also gilded. And as promised, the candlesticks were solid gold, bedecked with what were probably diamonds. All a bit much, if you ask me, but what can you expect from picture people? I’ve read that Norma Shearer lives in one of Mad King Ludwig’s castles that she had sliced into pieces and lugged to Beverly Hills.

The band was playing “Snake Hips”. There was a shout from someone in the offing.

“Bobby! What the hell are you and the limey doing here?” It was Evanston James, looking perfectly foul in a maroon dinner jacket. I expected Jeeves to shie like a stallion and gallop out of the room. Evanston slapped Bobby on the back and hitched his head at Jeeves. “Who’s this?”

“This is Bertie’s friend, Wisterly Blankenship. Wissy, this is Evanston James, one of our finer young pills.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” Evanston said, shaking Jeeves’s hand. “Come on, let’s get some drinks. Skip the champagne, there’s stronger stuff at the bar.” We followed him through the raucous crowd to a black-topped bar at the far end of the ballroom. Bobby and I had to shove a bit. Jeeves sailed through the crowd like a black-tied schooner. Soon we were all clutching glasses of _aqua vitae_ , and mighty fine _vitae_ indeed.

“Hello,” said a voice to our right. Turning, I almost fell over at beholding Gilbert Compson, the Great Lover Of The Screen. Gilbert Compson, star of five pictures co-starring Camilla Ondra, the German sensation. There was a wedding planned, with a honeymoon in Morocco.

So often when one meets movie stars, they are a disappointment. Either short with large heads or bad teeth or a squint. Compson was dazzling, white teeth in all directions and piercing blue eyes under dark eyebrows. Onscreen his hair looked black, but it was a rich dark brown. Star-struck, I stared at him dumbly. Even Jeeves seemed ever so slightly impressed.

“Gilbert,” said Evanston, clapping his arm around Compson’s shoulders. He introduced us.

I found my voice. “You’re—you’re Gilbert Compson.”

He smiled the smile that graced countless film magazine covers. “Guilty as charged.”

“Oh, ah—“ My voice decided it was of no use in this situation and left again.

“Don’t worry, Bertie, Gilbert has that effect on people,” Evanston said. “I’ve seen grown women faint dead away. And that was when they saw him across the street!”

“Come on, Ev, you’re not my publicist. So, Wissy, how do you know Lance?”

“I do not, Mr. Compson. Mr. Wooster and I are here as Mr. Lilley’s guests.”

“Isn’t old Wissy a scream?” Bobby exclaimed, his arm still around Gilbert. “You know what you remind me of?” he said to Jeeves. “A grandfather clock, that’s what.”

Jeeves lifted one eyebrow a fraction. Gilbert detached himself from Bobby, dodging an inebriated fellow guest who was trying to do the waltz by himself.

I found my voice, which had been hiding under a nearby table. “You—you—you’re marrying Camilla Ondra—I read it in the newspaper. Um, congratulations.”

Gilbert winked at me. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, sonny.” He took Jeeves’s arm. “Come on, English. Let’s find a place where we can get drunk.”

Jeeves started to demur, but both Bobby and Evanston made shooing motions. Gilbert tightened his grip on Jeeves’s arm and led him away. Before I could follow, another drunken guest bumped into me.

“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed.

The inebriate studied me. “Do I know you?”

“I think not,” I snapped. Bobby grabbed my upper arm and squeezed it so hard I yipped.

“Bertie Wooster, this is our host, Lance Watson.”

Lance Watson was not the handsome, debonair scion of movie royalty I expected. He bore an unfortunate resemblance to his gargoyle-esque father, only with fewer wrinkles. His brown hair was prematurely thinning at the top, and he was sweating.

“Thank you so much for this marvelous party, old chap,” I said, taking his damp hand and shaking it.

“Bertie Wooster?” Lance said, as if trying to remember me. We hadn’t met. Maybe I looked like one of his movie stars.

“Bertie Wooster?” he repeated. His sallow face lit up with a smile. “You’re a member of the _Drones_!”

This was unexpected.

 


	7. Party Favors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeeves does as he's told, and Bertie gets an unexpected gift.
> 
> Comments are my afternoon tea.

The band burst into Cab Calloway’s raucous “Trickeration”.

“I was in Blighty a few years ago and I got invited to the Drones,” Lance Watson went on breathlessly to the fellows around us. “You think Hollywood’s crazy? Let me tell you, those eggs are _nuts_!”

Jeeves came gliding up, smoothing his hair. The chap looked a bit perturbed. I looked in the direction for whence he had come.

Gilbert Compson was standing by a French door, looking rather confused, holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose. One presumed that one indeed could not believe everything one read in the papers.

“Protecting your virtue, Je—Wissy?” I murmured under the din.

“Mr. Compson refused to admit that a failed overture was grounds for cessation, si—Bertie.” He winced as he said my name. Poor old thing, forced to pretend to be somebody else, attending the sort of loud, vulgar orgy that he would never enjoy, and being pawed by the Great Lover of The Silver Screen. I was about to say something, then Bobby placed the cherry atop the Baked Alaska.

“Lance, _this_ is Wisterly Blakenship. Old Wissy here does bird calls! It’s a scream, I tell you!” He grabbed Jeeves’s hand and pulled him into the circle of soused bright young things.

Lance stared up at Jeeves. “Bird calls? You’re not kidding me?”

The band was playing “That Da-Da Strain”.

“Would I kid you at your own bachelor party?” said Bobby.

“He’s a bit long in the tooth to be a Drone,” Lance said doubtfully.

“He’s not, he’s Bertie’s pal.”

“Bird calls,” Lance repeated. To my horror, he turned and waved at the bandleader for quiet. The band stopped. An unearthly hush came over the ballroom. At Lance’s instruction, my fellow guests came and formed a sort of ring around Jeeves and Lance.

“Okay, Wissy, do your stuff!”

To the untrained eye, Jeeves appeared unruffled. To the trained eye, however...I tried to convey through my expression that I was desperately sorry.

Lance gave Jeeves a long look. “You’re so good, let’s hear...” His sweaty face split into a revolting grin... “a kookaburra.”

Jeeves drew himself up to his full height. The men around him yelled, “Kookaburra! Kookaburra!”

Jeeves did something I had never seen before—he blushed! Not a delicate pinkening of the ears, no, a fiery red blush. Dear oh dear, what had I gotten Jeeves into?

“The kookaburra is a treefisher of the genus _Dacelo_ native to Australia,” Jeeves said slowly. “Its name comes from its call, which sounds like this.” He took a deep breath, and suddenly emitted an earsplitting series of noises: “ _Meme-ooo-ooo-ooo-eh-heh-heheheheheheheheheh PPPPRrrrrrr ooo ooo ah ah ah!”_

The assembled broke into applause. I did so half-heartedly. To see Jeeves so undignified—I mean, he was still dignified by the standards of the chimpanzees around us—this Wooster knew how his faithful manservant was suffering.

Lance crossed his arms. “Okay, limey, let’s hear a crow.”

Jeeves sighed. “There are many types of crows around the globe, all of the genus _Corvus_ —“

“Stop with the nature talk,” Lance ordered. “Give with the crow!”

“Very well, Mr. Watson. _OW-WA-ugh-ugh-hwah-hwah_!”

“That doesn’t sound like a crow,” Bobby said. I wished him dead.

Various birds were shouted out. Jeeves heard one and obliged. This is where we came in, dear reader.

“ _Chik-chik-chik-chik-chik_!”

“Do another! Do another!” Lance Watson yelled over the applause and a thrown spoon. Jeeves smiled tightly.

“This is the call of the Eastern screech owl _. “Purrrerrrrr_ — _prrrrrrrrrrr prrrrrrrer prrrrrrrrrrr_ ”

“That’s the berries, Wissy! Do another!”

Jeeves inclined his noble head. “I am sorry to say, Mr. Watson, that my throat has become sore. The entertainment is over.” He turned and glided through the crowd toward the bar. I followed, stomach fluttering. The band resumed playing “The Dad-Da Strain”. What in hell could I say to Jeeves? “Sorry, old fruit” was hardly adequate. Perhaps throwing self on the floor and groveling was a good choice.

I couldn’t see him. Where in blazes had he gone?

I gave a circuit of the room several times, even going so far as to look out toward the swimming pool. Then I found him.

Jeeves stood at the bar. I’d been by twice, but hadn’t noted his majestic presence. He held a whisky in his large hand. He tossed it back in one swallow, and nodded at the bartender for another, putting two fingers together to indicate a larger drink. Then he added another finger.

“ _Jeeves_!” I squawked when I got to the bar. “Jeeves, Jeeves, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say, I didn’t think they’d make a public spectacle of you, I’m sorry.”

He glared down at me. “Mr. Wooster, words fail me.” The bartender set his drink before him. Again, Jeeves tossed it back in one swallow. “No doubt this will be the talk of the Pumpkin Club tomorrow.”

“But they don’t know it’s _you_ , Jeeves! They think it’s some bird named Wisterly.”

Before he could reply, Bobby and Evanston found their way to us. I sent up a prayer to Heaven that no more obnoxious requests were forthcoming.

But Heaven did not respond.

“Bertie!” Bobby yelled, pounding me on the back. “Wissy, you slayed them! We’re a cinch for the wedding reception! A million thanks!”

“You’re welcome,” Jeeves replied, signaling the bartender for another drink.

“Je—Wissy, do you think gulping that much is quite the thing?” I said.

He favored me with another glare. “I intend to get, as the Americans say, plastered.”

Before I could think of a suitable reply, Bobby butted in.

“The great unwashed are screaming for some Drones games!”

“Um, we don’t have any bread to throw,” I said, glancing around. The lovelies in the pink uniforms carried cigarettes and cheeroots in their baskets but no baked goods.

“Bread throwing’s for amateurs,” Evanston scoffed. “We want to play piggyback polo! Lance called you as his mount, Wissy.”

“Sure you can see old Wisterly’s exhausted, Evanston?” I protested.

“Look, if Lance wants you to be his pony, you’re his pony,” Evanston said to Jeeves. “Have another drink, pal, the more ossified you get the easier it’ll be. Pretty soon you won’t care if Lance uses you for a diving board!”

Jeeves drew a long breath through his nostrils and signaled for yet another whisky. After he had drained his glass, he turned to Evanston.

“Very well,” Jeeves said with a miniscule hiccup. “Lead me to my ruin.”

I followed, the heart in the throat. After tonight, Jeeves would surely quit and have good reason to do so. That was if he wasn’t too hung-over to hand in his portfolio for a day or two. There was no way this Wooster could make this up to him.

Various members of the party were scrambling onto the backs of other members with a great deal of drunken laughter. Lance grabbed Jeeves by his black satin lapel. “Okay, horsey, kneel down!”

Even stewed to the gills, Jeeves was graceful. He knelt down and let Lance jump on his back. Then he gathered Lance’s legs under his arms and straightened up somewhat.

“Okay, we need polo mallets!” Lance ordered. “Get us polo mallets,” he ordered the waiters standing behind the tables. “Those!” He pointed to the diamond encrusted candlesticks. Hastily, the waiters doused the flames, removed the candles and brought them to Lance and the other “riders”. Bobby had climbed aboard a man I recognized as Lou “Bounce Bounce” Fanelli, long a favorite of two-reeler aficionados. Fanelli was smoking a cigar and deeply stinko.

“Let’s go!” Lance commanded.

A waiter dropped a large yellow rubber ball onto the floor.

Some of the “steeds” whinnied and started running around the ballroom, to loud laughter and clapping. I couldn’t look. Instead I made my way to the other side of the room.

“Bertie! Bertie Wooster!” A tall blonde man I didn’t recognize came toward me.

“That’s me, yes,” I answered.

“I’m Gareth Shingles, Lance’s assistant. Did you get your party favor?”

“No.”

“Oh!” Shingles dug an object from the bag he was carrying. It was a cigarette lighter. He stood, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t see what there was to get excited about, until I took a closer look and almost dropped the thing. It was solid gold. A ring of diamonds ran around the middle, and if I was not mistaken, a huge emerald was set into the push-piece.

“Good lord, Shingles!" I gargled. "You mean to say we’re getting these as party gifts? Solid gold cigarette lighters?”

Shingles grinned.  There was something behind his grin, but I couldn’t tell what it was. “Look around this place,” he said, and chuckled. “You think this is expensive for a bird like Watson? Listen, I’ve got to pass the babies out. Enjoy the lighter! See ya!”


	8. Camptown Races

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which piggyback polo has unintended consequences for all concerned.

A banjo-heavy rendition of “Camptown Races” rang out throughout the ballroom. With great jubilation, the players and their steeds stampeded through the French doors out onto the lawn, followed by the rest of the crew. Even the pink-suited cigarette girls ran out, spilling their wares. “Joanie, willya lookit _that_!” one of them called to her _soeur dans les cigarettes,_ both of them dissolving into giggles. Quite a few of the male spectators took this opportunity to slip an arm around a shapely waist, with no resistance to be had from the beazels.

I stepped out onto the terrazzo to watch the spectacle. The lanterns around the pool and the moon on the ocean made the water glitter like jewels. There weren’t any goalposts and lord knows the participants didn’t care about chukkas. The scene before me was all joy and jollity. The last of the Woosters knew that after tonight life as he knew it would change irrevocably for the worst. How could he face his manservant, whom he had allowed to be publicly disgraced?  I lit a disheartened cigarette with my new fancy lighter. Damn thing was awfully heavy, but that happens with things made out of solid gold. Perhaps I could gift Jeeves with it. As a going-away present. 

It was easy to pick Jeeves out. He led the pack, even with Lance Watson perched on top of him, yelling and swinging his golden candlestick like a crazed Cossack. Jeeves’s back was nearly straight, carrying his rider’s weight easily. I’d never seen the man walk—he floated, shimmered—let alone, run. But now he raced like a bally Man o’ War! I was staggered, astonished, transfixed, gollywogged...what I mean to say, is that I found watching Jeeves run was about the most wonderful thing I’d ever beheld.

His long, black trouser’d  legs chewed up the thick grass, easily keeping himself and Watson well ahead of the others.  He was also kicking the yellow ball forward, but so subtly that only one who was virtually sober—as I was, regrettably—would notice it. Lance, having left sobriety in his distant past,  apparently believed that waving his candlestick in the air was causing the ball to move. Gilbert Compson was astride a well-built young man who clearly enjoyed the attention far more than “Wisterly”. But they could not keep up with Jeeves.

If only I was Lance Watson. _Riding_ Jeeves, feeling his muscular form underneath me, his strong arms curled around my legs. Watching the ground speed by underneath me, my face buried in his neck, smelling Jeeves’s sweat...

The cigarette slipped from my nerveless fingers. _Stop those thoughts at once, Wooster!_ These thoughts were unworthy of a gentleman, not matter how strapping and fit his manservant was.

Bobby was yelling at Louis “Bounce Bounce” Fanelli, “move faster, you fat jerk!” Fanelli had stumbled to a stop, gasping for breath, as were several of the other “ponies”.  But not Jeeves. Unable to stop myself, I chased down the lawn after him, watching in awe. He ducked and dodged as some of the younger “ponies” tried to catch up with him. “Faster!” Lance shouted, and kicked Jeeves in the ribs! The blighter!

Suddenly Jeeves turned and made for the swimming pool. In one graceful motion, Jeeves stopped short, simultaneously bending and letting go of Lance. Lance went flying over Jeeves’s head into the pool!  A deluge of water the Magic Fountain of Barcelona would have been proud of splashed out onto the tiles, liberally dousing Jeeves. But the man’s _mien_ did not change one whit. He gazed placidly down at his drenched victim.

The others stopped awkwardly, colliding with each other, filling the air with screams of mirth.  “Riders” slid off their “ponies” onto the ground, some holding their sides. Louis “Bounce Bounce” Fanelli must have desperately envied Lance Watson right then.

“What the hell!” Lance spluttered,  treading water. “What the living hell!”

“My deepest apologies, Mr. Watson,” Jeeves said, sounding believably remorseful. “I tripped.” He turned to Evanston. “However, it is most fortuitous that Mr. Watson was able to use me as a diving board.”

It was but the work of a moment for a horde of white-jacketed servers to swarm around Watson, wrapping him in towels and whatnot. They quickly led him away. One dismounted steed swayed over to Jeeves and clapped him on the back.

“Good show, fella! I’ve been wanting to do that for years!”

“Thank you,” Jeeves demurred, looking over at me. His fellows crowded around him, singing his praises and promising him copious libations. Gilbert Compson sidled up to him but Jeeves side-stepped and put a cigarette girl between them. The girl’s worshipful gaze turned from Jeeves to Compson and that little problem was solved. The popsy’s eyes widened even further, and she draped herself over the Great Lover of The Screen. “Gilbert _Compson_...” she breathed, and fell into a faint.

That was not too far off from how I felt. My valet’s dark hair hung over his chiseled features, his shirt collar half unbuttoned, his tie a wet mess. He looked so human in the lantern light, the rippling water in the pool flickering light over him, so not Jeeves, so _edible_. His eyes flicked away from me as he repaired his sopping tie and smoothed back his hair.

“Jeeves, I—“ I started, but he swept past me.

 

I took my time returning to the orgy. Hands in my pockets, I strolled down to the beach. What had gotten into me? Yes, Jeeves was a toothsome mister, perhaps even better looking than Esmond Haddock. By Jove, Jeeves _was_ better looking than Esmond Haddock, who up until this moment had been the favorite to beat. Jeeves was now leading by a length—I halted the unfortunate metaphor in its tracks. With a sigh, I resolved to live right and do penance by spending an entire afternoon with Basil “Snores” Johnson, the Pumpkin Club bore. A man so dull grown men threw themselves off of moving trains to avoid sharing a car with him.

With those gloomy thoughts in mind, I shuffled back to the mansion. The party had not abated a whit, if anything it had gotten louder. The orchestra was playing a sweeter slower song, “On The Sunny Side Of The Street”. When I breached the terrazzo, Watson was there, wrapped in a dressing gown in a ghastly shade of pink with gold piping, sitting on a large chair, cigarette girls and servants fussing over him.

“Wooster!” Watson yelled.

“Pardon?”

“Get over here!”

That dressing gown really was an unflattering shade of pink. It matched the pink on the top of his head, which top was now further revealed by Watson’s skimpy damp locks. He reminded one of nothing so much as an gnome sitting on a rococo silk toadstool. His betrothed was clearly not marrying him for his looks.

A puffy, reddened eye squinted at me. “This is your fault, Wooster!”

“I say!”

“You think I haven’t heard what the other Drones say about you, buster? The crazy stunts? The trouble you get other people into? You’re the jellybean who brought that big English bimbo who threw me in the pool!”

“That wasn’t my fault! Bobby Lilley—“

“Muzzle it!” He turned to a rather large thug, presumably a bodyguard, standing nearby. “Schultzie, find that other guy now!”

As if by magic, Jeeves materialized, along with the man Shingles. “Mr. Watson, I simply cannot apologize enough.”

“Light me?” Shingles asked, wiggling a cigarette.

When I obliged, Watson let out a shout that could be heard in Brooklyn.

“By Christ! Wooster’s got _my_ lighter!”

“Your lighter? Shingles here said it was a party favor!”

Shingles had the unmitigated crust to look offended. “A party favor? What are you talking about?” He raised an eyebrow at Watson, who by now was foaming at the mouth.

“Yeah! You _steal_ things, Wooster! Cow creamers! Paintings! Fiancées! Schultzie, call the police! Have these two arrested! Get the guards!”

Jeeves and I looked at each other, two minds with but a single thought: scrambooch.

So we did.


	9. Nowhere To Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeeves and Bertie find themselves in a tight situation.

As demonstrated earlier, Jeeves could cover the turf like a thoroughbred at Wolverhampton. This Wooster is no slouch when it comes to speed as well. We blasted through the ballroom, armed guards following us. The other party guests jumped out of our way. We dashed down the marble stairs, past the hat check stands and out the enormous faux Spanish tiled door.

But before we could run down the drive to freedom, a guard came around the side of the manse, waving a firearm and yelling “Hey! Stop right there!”

Jeeves wheeled about like lightning. I followed, almost falling over.  We hotfooted it in the opposite direction around the other side of _chez_ Watson, and there spotted the mammoth two-story garage.

Standing by an infinite variety of flivvers was a group of chauffeurs. They were smoking cigarettes and appeared to be having a good time. Mr. Coneybear was holding a pack of cards.

Said good time was rudely interrupted by the young master and his valet galloping into the garage. “Mr. Wooster!” Mr. Coneybear exclaimed. “Mr. Wooster! What’s wrong?”

"Help!" I gave him a panicked glance over my shoulder. Jeeves grabbed my arm and pulled me to the rear of the garage, where a staircase led to the upper floor. We scaled the staircase like mountain goats and found ourselves in a dusty room that spanned the length of the garage. It was evidently used for furniture and auto part storage. I could hardly catch my breath, I was panting like a hound on a hot day.

Below, I could hear the guards yelling (undoubtedly about how much they wanted to pound this Wooster into porridge), blended with the sounds of Mr. Coneybear calling our names.

“Jeeves, what are we going to do?” I wheezed.

“Follow me, sir.” A few feet further, Jeeves jumped into the air, grabbed a handle in the ceiling and pulled down a small ladder.

“I saw them run up there!” one of the guards yelled.

“In here, sir!”

It was a narrow passage, barely wide enough to crawl through. Nevertheless, we pushed into it with vigor suited to a Tasmanian devil. The door snapped shut behind us.

It was then we discovered the one flaw in my valet’s plan.

When I said it was barely wide enough to crawl through, I meant for _one_ cove. Two coves were two pounds of flour in a one pound bag. We were stuffed into the space, facing each other horizontally. I mean to say, crushed together like—like two crushed things.

“Jeeves, we seem to be stuck.”

“Indeed, sir.” A puff of whiskey breath caused my eyes to flutter.

“Mr. Wooster? Mr. Jeeves?” Mr. Coneybear was walking around the room below us. I started to speak but Jeeves shook his head.

“No,” he mouthed.

“But—“ I mouthed back.

“ _No_.” This mouthing was firmer. I’d never been this close to my man’s mouth before. It was a very nice mouth. Good teeth.

“Those two mugs up here, fella?” asked another male voice.

“No, sir, I think they got out the window,” said Mr. Coneybear. “Maybe across the roof.”

“Dammit!” Their footsteps faded away into the distance. Good lord, I could hear Mr. Coneybear’s voice fading as well!

Bertram was uncomfortably aware of being squeezed against Jeeves with no escape. Bertram was also uncomfortably aware of the body’s reaction to being squeezed against Jeeves with no escape. If the Wooster brain wanted out, the Wooster corpus was more than happy to remain in this position. Happy enough to cause my body to warm, and to my dismay, cause my manly bits to wake up and say howdy. To make matters worse, his corpus was responding in kind.

Rather than stare at each other’s faces, we looked anywhere else. But there wasn’t much of an anywhere else to look.

Determined to be master of the situation, I turned my head and stared over Jeeves’s shoulder, while he did the same with me. This way we were able to ignore what was happening. Or to look like we were able to ignore what was happening, which was the important part.

“Dashed tight in here, Jeeves,” I said, angling my chin away.

“Indeed, sir. Extremely tight,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed on the middle distance. I was going hot and cold with embarrassment. Lie back and think of England, man! If only I could lie back!

“We...er...should get out of here, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Bend the brain to the task. How do we get out?” I tried to squirm backwards, which was a _terrible_ idea. It felt bloody marvelous. I was having trouble breathing. More so because there was quite an unruly amount of dust and cobwebs.

“I shall find a way, sir,” he replied. “There is a window at the far end. If we could get to the window, I could find a way to open it and call for help.”

“Call for help? And get arrested?”

“We will be out of this crawlspace, sir. It would be injudicious to remain here any longer than we”—he shifted and gave a small gasp—“than we have to.”

“Quite agree.” His shift had rubbed him against me. His broom-handle was most certainly standing at attention. “I’m, uh, having a bit of trouble with the lungs. The dust, don’t you know.” It was true. To add to my other discomforts, the copious dust was getting up my nose. Although I tried my best to suppress it, I sneezed. I was fast enough to turn my face to the floor, sending up a flurry of dust. This caused Jeeves to sneeze as well. Our bodies jolted together. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. “We have to do something, Jeeves.”

Jeeves craned his neck to stare at the window at the end of the crawlspace. Crawlspace was a misnomer, unless the thing crawling was a tarantula. Speaking of tarantulas, doubtless there were spiders!

“Sir, we can make it to the window if we take turns moving forward,” Jeeves said with just the hint of a groan. My body dearly wanted to make a holiday of it but a proper gentleman does not rut against his servant in a crawlspace.

“Take turns?” My voice shot up two octaves.

“Yes, sir.” Jeeves’s voice shook. “You move forward, then I move forward, then you move forward, then I—“

“Yes, yes, Jeeves, I get it. There isn’t another way? Can’t we shout for help?”

“None that I can think of, sir. Due to our bodies the acoustics have become somewhat, um, muffled.”

“Muffled indeed,” I agreed, trying to move away from away from his groin, but I couldn’t. “There’s nothing for it, Jeeves, we’ll just have to wriggle. I’ll wriggle first.”

Steeling myself, I pushed and wiggled against Jeeves, moving myself forward. When my shaft shoved against his stomach, I almost passed out. He sneezed again and I thought I might die. What would the Wooster at Agincourt think? 

“Your turn, Jeeves.”

Jeeves wriggled a great deal more smoothly than me, which only made matters worse. For the next eon we wriggled toward the window. He was obviously also trying to ignore what was happening between us. It would have been easier to ignore if we weren’t constantly pushing against each other. Not to mention sneezing from the dust!  I closed my eyes to avoid looking at the man’s face, but that only made things worse. An urge to kiss him was averted by another sneeze. We were both trembling like billy-o.

“I am sorry for my physical reaction, sir,” Jeeves said as the wool of his trousers made contact with my face. “I am finding it impossible to control.”

“Understandable,” I tried to say, but the man’s private bits being shoved into my nose prevented more than a few mumbled syllables. I turned the dial toward the floor. “Any--any two chaps would be similarly affected. It will be forgotten as soon as we’re freed from this prison. Never mentioned again, I promise you!” It was my turn to move forward, and for a moment we faced each other again. I wriggled forward, determined not to behave boorishly.

We were just a few inches from the window. Jeeves pulled his arm out full length, reaching over me to open it, rolling on top of me. He pushed it open. I fought not to pass out or worse.

“I can see Mr. Coneybear, sir,” Jeeves said. “But he is too far away to call out to.” Jeeves licked his lips. Was he going to kiss me? But no, rather than planting one on the young master, he let out with a bird call!

“ _Ee-eree, er-eeree, check, check, check, eer-eree, er-eeree_.” His voice rose. “ _Ee-eree, er-eeree, check, check, check, eer-eree, er-eeree_.”

He was imitating a mockingbird!

“What’s happening, Jeeves?”

“He’s looking this way, sir. _EE-EREE, ER-EEREE, CHECK, CHECK, CHECK, EER-EREE, ER-EEREE_.”

Footsteps crunched on the gravel.

“Mr. Jeeves?”

“We’re up here! Help!” I cried.

“Please, not so loud, sir!”

“Help—“ I started to say, when Jeeves silenced me by kissing me hard.

Then we both sneezed.


End file.
